


Jagged Little Pill

by htbthomas



Category: Limitless (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: A year after the finale, Brian's still happily working to take down criminals with the FBI. Or he would be, if NZT was still working the way it should.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostofgatsby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/gifts).



> Thank you to my betas, innie and DrWhohouselock221b for the help!
> 
> Title from Alanis Morissette's [album](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi209tdme0xpxgP38msLSFIE0cfR-B-7P).

_My buddy's Eddie V., a sourpuss you'll see! But when I'm done, he'll need no gun, 'cause a joker he will be!"_ Roger Rabbit's manic face fills the television screen, the bar patrons in the scene roaring with laughter.

Only part of Brian's attention is on the screen as he sits on the couch. He's always loved this movie, funny and silly and over the top, which is why he put it on. He needs that tonight, something to distract him from the encroaching despair that comes at him when he least expects.

On screen, Judge Doom appears in the bar. Brian's mouth quirks up at the timing. Maybe it's a sign—his cue to just do it, go for it, stop putting off his plan for the evening. His gaze drifts over to the small packet on the coffee table. A single dose of NZT. Not from the FBI's source, but from Clay Meeks' impure batch.

He picks it up, tipping the clear pill into his hand. As Doom knocks the rhythm of Shave and a Haircut on the wall to lure Roger out, the pill seems to jump in time to the knocks. Time to stop procrastinating. He pops the pill back, closing his eyes. Waiting. Hoping.

He opens his eyes. Roger bursts out of the wall, singing, _"Two bits!"_

Beside him, Brian hears a crunch of popcorn. "I love this movie."

He feels a wash of relief. Inner Voice Brian is back, as vibrant and colorful as the characters on the screen. "I love it too, man."

"And it still holds up after all these years! _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ Pour one out for Bob Hoskins. The man was a genius."

Brian turns back to the screen, cataloguing everything as he watches. And thank god, because he feels the way NZT _should_ make him feel. His mind spins so fast that he starts to see each individual cel of animation, frame by frame.

Wait. That is _not_ how it's supposed to feel. He turns back to Inner Voice Brian. His hair is now a mass of waves moving of their own accord, his eyes a brilliant blue, the lines of his body wavering slightly rather than staying perfectly still.

"What's up, Bri?" The voice is pitched higher and faster than it should be. Then he shifts fully into 1940s-era Technicolor hand-drawn animation. "What's all the hubbub, bub?"

Brian drops his head into his hands. He tells Toon Brian, "Everything."

* * *

Whatever happened with NZT last night was drilling a hole in his consciousness, but he pushed it to the back of his mind as he headed to the conference room. Brian claps his hands upon entering. "What are we up for today, team?"

Naz nods at his enthusiasm, but she's long used to it. Spellman, Jason and Darryl don't even look up. Rebecca raises an eyebrow from her seat—can she tell he's faking it? She hasn't said anything specific to him yet, but he can tell she suspects there's something wrong. He gives her a smile, trying not to make it too bright in case she catches on.

"Some new information has come to light on the deputy mayor—possible ties to organized crime." Naz displays the man's photo on the screen.

"McFarlane?" Jason shakes his head sadly. "I liked that guy."

"Where are we getting this information?" Rebecca asks. "Is the source reputable?"

"That's what your team is going to determine." Naz hands out assignments: Spellman and Jason on the deputy mayor's staff, Rebecca and Darryl on researching his movements over the past month, Brian on the usual—letting his imagination go wild. Naz never knows what she's going to get when she puts Brian to work on a case. The good thing is, she doesn't seem to care as long as it gets results. None of the team really does anymore. After two years of working together, Brian's wild flights of fancy and intricately crafty models don't faze them.

So he can't really blame them if they haven't really noticed any of it. That his flights are less fancy. That his crafts are less intricate. That he's less and less This-Is-Your-Brian-On-Drugs and more... Just Brian.

He's not sure when _he_ noticed. A few months ago, right around mid-afternoon, the world that was shot through with saturated color and obvious connections would start to fade, and by the time someone brought in dinner, it would be completely gone. At first he thought it might be a batch of NZT gone bad. He spent an evening in the lab, testing the chemical composition of the FBI's current formulation against a pill he'd found from the early days. No discernible difference. He tested his blood samples at regular intervals—before, during and after taking the drug—and his NZT-enhanced brain hadn't been able to determine a cause for the fade out.

So he started to pop another NZT after lunch (he's been in control of his dosage for over a year now), just to keep it going for the whole day. No big deal, right? He's immune to the side effects since Piper dosed him with the permanent cure.

That was four weeks ago. Now he's lucky if he makes it to mid-morning. He takes his bathroom break a little earlier every day, locks himself into a stall and gives himself a little pep talk before downing another pill.

Today the pep talk is for the pill itself.

"C'mon, little guy," he says to the NZT lying innocently in his palm, "I know you've got it in you. You can do great things if you set your mind to it. That is, set _my_ mind to it."

It doesn't respond back, which is probably a good thing. Or bad, if the vivid fantasy world he's often experienced while on NZT is what he's aiming for. With a shrug, he tells it, "Down the hatch."

It seems to stick a little on the way down, and he swallows again to force it the rest of the way.

"Should probably take it with water," Inner Voice Brain tells him from the other side of the stall door.

"Don't want to dilute it." Brian flushes the toilet, just for appearances. He's feeling no relief. He can't see Inner Voice Brian yet.

"And the five cups of joe today wouldn't do that anyway? Let's get real."

Brian opens the door. Inner Voice Brian looks like he's supposed to, except he's wearing a tan trenchcoat and a fedora. Improvement?

"Like it?" Inner Voice Brian spreads his arms and twists to one side, then the other to show his apparel to best effect. "It's the latest in noir fashion."

Brian takes a moment to appreciate it. He doesn't look half bad. Maybe he's got his next costume party idea. But… "Missing something, though."

A highball glass of scotch appears in his hand. "Like this?"

"Perfect." Brian washes his hands, already feeling more chipper about this dose. It isn't until he starts to whistle "The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down" that he realizes his mental doppelganger is dressed as Eddie Valiant from _Roger Rabbit_.

Inner Voice Brian shrugs. "I said it was a great flick, didn't I?"

Brian shrugs back, then starts the whistle back up, the two of them in tight harmony once Inner Voice Brian joins in. He opens the door to the hallway—and there's Rebecca, leaning against the wall, waiting.

His whistle cuts off mid-phrase. "Rebecca? Is everything okay? I thought you were with Darryl today."

"He can handle it alone for a while." She pushes off from the wall and takes a couple steps toward him. "I wanted to check on you. Are _you_ okay?"

He hesitates. "I'm fine." Yeah, he's fine, right now. But he just took a dose of NZT.

She tilts her head, and her forehead crinkles, just a fraction. "You're sure?"

He knows that fraction down to the decimal. It's the is-Brian-really-telling-the-truth crinkle. He hesitated too long. "Yeah, I don't know, maybe I'm under the weather a little." That's true.

"Today? Or all month?"

Damn. It's been showing longer than he thought. He coughs for effect. "I can't seem to shake it, I guess."

"Have you been to the doctor for it?"

"No."

"You should." She shakes her head at him, the disappointed schoolmarm look. Which he would find a little hot if he wasn't actually so afraid of disappointing her. She places a hand on his arm. "Don't let it get so bad it takes you down." Then she squeezes and walks back toward her desk.

He watches her go. He knows he needs to tell her. He should have told her long before now. But what can he say? "Hey, Rebecca, I don't think NZT is working for me anymore, not like it used to. No side effects, but no good effects either. Sort of a diminishing-returns situation. Guess our days of working together are numbered, huh? Oh, and don't tell Naz."

She sits at her desk, turning to ask Darryl what he's found so far. Brian turns to Inner Voice Brian, who's now desaturated into black and white. He takes a swig of his scotch. "Looks like you're up a creek without a paddle."

Then he fritzes like an old vacuum-tube television and disappears.

* * *

Brian stands under the streetlamp and checks his phone for the fifteenth time. He tries to control his breathing, but there's nothing he can do about his heartrate. Is the guy going to show up? He has to.

At the end of the street, a figure turns the corner. He can't tell who it is yet in the dark, but the person walks with a determined gait, their long coat flapping at their knees. It has to be him. Finally. Brian swallows back an NZT and sets his shoulders, waiting for the confidence boost.

It hits, the darkness around him coming into sharper focus, and Brian turns to face the approaching figure. Their head snaps up at Brian's movement, and the light catches the face—a man, but not the man Brian's been waiting for.

The man frowns and picks up his pace to pass by, mumbling, "G'd'evening."

As he watches the man walk away and out of sight, Inner Voice Brian appears under the next street lamp over. "Tough luck, kid," he says, tipping his fedora.

"Yeah, thanks." Brian collapses against his own lamppost in frustration. Where is he?

The Bureau doctor hadn't been able find anything physically wrong. Brian knew he wouldn't, but it was another checkmark on the "what the fuck do I do now" list. He needs Piper, or someone like her. Someone who is familiar with the ins and outs of the drug and its long-term effects. But he doesn't dare try to find her. She deserves her privacy, her freedom from the government and other people's machinations.

It had occurred to Brian about three weeks in that there _was_ at least one person he could turn to, one person who might be experiencing this same diminishing-returns effect on NZT, especially since he'd been taking it for years longer than Brian. Edward Morra. But Brian spent a full year trying to get out from under Morra's influence—it felt like taking a step backward. No. Like taking a flying leap backward. Into a canyon. But without destroying Piper's hard-won freedom, what choice did he have anymore?

So he'd sent a cryptic message from an untraceable computer to Morra, hoping—knowing—that Morra could decode it if he were still on NZT. And considering his name was still popping up with regularity in FBI chatter, he must be, though his run for President would never happen now.

Brian checks his phone again. He's been waiting for thirty minutes now. With a sigh, he straightens up. Morra's not coming.

"Come with me," says a voice almost beside his ear. The voice is clipped and professional but unfamiliar. Brian tenses, but NZT gives him the control to keep from jumping and screaming like a steam whistle.

The face is unfamiliar, too, all sharp angles under the harsh light. One of Morra's goons, he assumes. But despite his desperation, he's smart enough to know he has to take some precautions. He slips his hand surreptitiously into his pocket, ready to call for help. If the guy's on NZT, it won't make any difference. If not…

"Where?"

"Someplace more senior." The goon jerks his head toward the one end of the street.

"Senior?" What does that mean? "More... 'secure'?"

The goon wrinkles his nose and sneers, "What I said. Now do you want to see the big man or not?"

Okay, definitely not on NZT.

"Yes."

It's not far, down a set of alleys and to an unmarked door in a darkened warehouse. There's only one dim bulb lighting the entrance, and the shadows seem filled with wriggling shapes. He knows they can't meet any place public, like a coffee shop, or even a dive bar. But this seems even more sketchy than he'd feared.

And he can already feel the NZT beginning to fade.

"He's in there?" Brian asks the goon, who shrugs like this is the least interesting thing he's done all day.

Brian palms another NZT. He doesn't know what will happen if he takes two in such close succession, but he knows he can't face Morra without it. "Okay."

He pretends to rub at his face to cover swallowing another dose and then takes a step forward to turn the knob.

A moment later, he's seeing stars—or are those little birdies?—and there's pain blossoming in the back of his head. He staggers back, and into the arms of a second goon, who holds his arms back so Brian can take a punch to the gut. He doubles over in agony, and the goon holding him snickers. "Hit 'im again."

Blearily, Brian looks into the face of his attacker, the first goon. His sharp angles have turned positively weasel-like. "You got it."

The guy hits him again, and the world goes red and wobbly.

So—two doses of NZT in a row? Not a good idea. Noted.

He tries to resist, to use the NZT as the asset it's always been, but everything is now a swirl of brightest color and darkest shadow. Nothing he sees, nothing he senses seems totally real, only the pain. The weasels keep punching him, kicking him, beating him until he's curled up into a little ball.

And when he thinks he's going to pass out from the pain, it suddenly stops. A shadow crosses his face, blocking even the dim light from the bulb, and a voice rasps, "Did you really think I'd _help_ you? After you betrayed me?"

Morra.

Brian opens his swollen eyes to see Morra's face hovering over his. His eyes are red, popping in and out of his skull. Brian chuckles, but it sounds more like a dying wheeze. "You gonna put me in The Dip?"

Morra frowns and clucks his tongue. "You're worse off than I thought. But it's only what you deserve. Think on that while you're coming down."

Then they're gone. Both Doom Morra and his Weasel Goons. Thanks to NZT, he can feel the slow trickle of blood from his wounds—not enough to kill him, but enough that he'll be limping for days. He can't move yet, just shifting hurts too much. But he has to move. He has to get out of there, to get help…

"Brian?"

It's a husky whisper, low and urgent. He opens his eyes again, and there she is, Rebecca Harris, full lips, hair hanging over one eye, running a gentle hand over his face.

Is she real? She's so beautiful, face soft in the light, that 1940s filtered glow they liked so much back then.

Her lips purse and she breathes out a husky, "Brian, can you hear me? Can you move?"

Of course she would be Jessica, sultry, voluptuous, standing by her ma—er, partner.

Still not sure if she is real, he tries, "I—" attempting to lift himself from the oily pavement. The shooting pain causes him to slump back down. "No."

"I'm going to get you help..."

"No… just… get me back to my apartment, please…" That is, if she's real. How did she find him, anyway? He tries to push past the pain. He can do this. If he can just get into her arms, if he can just get back to her car, wherever that is. If it exists.

Nope. The world goes screwy again, hallucinatory singing trees and animals and—

Then everything is black.

* * *

His eyes open, just barely, and the red swirls are back, voices too high or too low to hear. He can't see anything clearly, and he feels like he's falling through space, like Wile E. Coyote endlessly falling from a desert mesa, just waiting for the impact. He closes his eyes again and the black returns.

The next time everything is bright, a light shining into his eyes and worried eyebrows hovering over his face. There are muffled voices that he can't make out and still the feeling of movement. Not falling but speeding forward across a sea of rocks.

"Hang in there," a voice says, and a damp cloth wipes at his brow. Then the light fades away and he's gone.

When he opens his eyes a third time, the light is dim, the ride is soft. Is he moving? His throat is dry, so dry that even forming the word "water" is difficult, but he tries. The walls are flowing like liquid and he reaches his fingers toward them.

"Brian?"

He tries to turn his head toward the voice. His lips shape the consonants and vowels. Rebecca?

Warm hands slide behind his neck to lift him just enough to drink from a water glass. "Thank you." It's barely audible, and a fresh wave of pain accompanies his efforts.

Her glittering eyes are the last thing he sees before he's out again.

* * *

When he wakes up, this time fully in charge of his faculties, it's light, though he can't tell if it's morning or afternoon. He's not lying bleeding on the pavement, or in a hospital; he's in his own bedroom, alone. And the world is still, desaturated but real. The hallucinations are gone. He hopes.

He runs a hand over his face. There are bandages on his wounds. Someone helped him. Someone got him home from that alley. He can't remember anything except the hallucinations, which could have been a fever dream.

But he hopes it wasn't.

If he's lucky, one part of his hallucination was reality. "Rebecca?" he calls out hesitantly to the empty room.

She appears at the doorway smiling, though there are worried frown lines between her eyebrows. But she's normal, the way she should look. "Brian, you're awake."

"Yeah. This time for real."

She frowns a little but comes all the way into the room and sits on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

"I don't know. How do I look?" He tries to shift to his side, but a stab from his abdomen hits. With a groan, he returns to his back.

"Pretty terrible."

"Then we're in agreement."

She grins for just a moment, as if she's glad to see his humor survived the night, but worry replaces it just as quickly. Quietly, she asks "What happened, Brian?"

"You took me home," he says gratefully, dodging the question, then asks one of his own. "How did I get here?"

"I called a friend—you don't know her," she adds off his look. "But you should have gone to the hospital."

He shakes his head. "No, I really shouldn't. So thank you."

"Brian." Her hand rests on his bare arm. " _What happened?_ "

This is it. He has to tell her. He considers where to start. Toony Inner Voice Brian and weasel goons and Morra as Doom doesn't seem like the best place.

"NZT happened." At her confused frown, he adds, "Or NZT is not happening, take your pick."

Her face undergoes a series of emotions, comprehension threading through them all. Then she lets out a short laugh. "No wonder."

"I've never been able to get much past you." It's why they're such great partners. It's what he'll miss now that it's all over.

She shakes her head. "Is the immunity shot not working anymore? Are the side effects coming back?"

"It's not that as much as... I don't think _NZT_ works for me anymore. Not like it used to."

"Doesn't…?" Something in his face makes the extent of the problem clear. "Oh, Brian. We can figure this out."

"Figure it out? I was up to four a day just to make it to dinner time. And doubling the dosage was, uh, not the best NZT-fueled idea I ever had." It landed him here, in terrible shape.

"We've got a lab, we've got scientists who can analyze a blood sample, something…"

He knows. But he'd also done a lot of his own testing and come up with no answers. "They're not on—" He shakes his head, sad. "If I couldn't figure it out, I don't have much hope for them."

"Oh." She's quiet for a while, her hand still resting on his arm. He finds himself studying her fingers, the short well-kept nails, the callus on her trigger finger rough against his skin. "What about Piper?" she asks finally.

"Piper's not an option." His lips press together. He hasn't communicated with her since she gave him the shot. He won't.

She's quiet for a long moment, not arguing with him. As the moment stretches, he relaxes a little.

"Then who was an option?" She gestures at his body covered in technicolor bruises and seeping wounds. "Who did this?" Before his guilt lets him answer, her fingers tighten on his arm. "Morra?"

"It was dumb, I know—" He knows his explanation is falling flat without looking at her expression. "—but he's still on NZT, he has to be. How is he still operating at full capacity? He's been taking it longer than I have—"

"Is he?" she interrupts. "Is he at full capacity? Or is he faking it, like—?"

"Like I have been." She's right. He could be. "The only way to find out is to catch him." Whenever that will be, if ever. He's always been a step ahead. Brian lets out a heavy breath and closes his eyes. "Until then…"

"Until then, you'll be a part of the team that catches him."

He feels the squeeze of her fingers, but her words don't really register. He's starting to sink again, back into the despair that has been gripping his heart. Now it's really over—Rebecca's knowing the truth is the last step, the last little chance that he could pretend everything is fine. Naz and the FBI is just a formality. What now? He can't go back to working at a discount electronics store, that would kill him faster than the disappointment. Maybe he could see if they'd let him into Quantico to train as an analyst. He'd never be assigned to New York, but maybe that's for the best, to not be surrounded by constant reminders of his failure—

Rebecca is shaking his arm. Hard. "Brian!"

"...It'll probably be some tiny regional office, like Fresno…" he mumbles. "...be close to Yosemite, though…"

"What?"

"What?" He looks up into her confused frown.

"You're still a part of the team, NZT or not."

"But…" That wasn't true last time he went off NZT, why would it be now? "What could I possibly offer?"

She reaches for his hand, lying still on the covers, and folds it between both of hers. "You, Brian. Just you."

* * *

She squeezes his hand out in the hallway, a brief tightening of the fingers that means as much as a hug. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"It's been six months of work to get here. Why wouldn't I be?"

She tilts her head like that's a stupid question.

Okay, it is.

"You're not exactly breaking down the door."

"Maybe I've gotten used to the new status quo. Maybe I like watching from the sidelines now. It's definitely safer." He shrugs, but she's not buying any of it. "And less swinging from cranes, tied in unbreakable ropes." That earns a lip twist.

"And maybe he doesn't have all the answers."

Bingo. "Yeah. That."

"We won't know until we go in there."

"That, too." He takes a deep breath and steels himself. The anticipation almost feels like the sweet rush of NZT, though he knows it can't compare. "Okay. I'm ready. Let's do this."

He swings the door open to see Morra, sitting cuffed to the interrogation table. He's been there for hours, long enough to be sure the last of whatever NZT he might have taken is gone from his system. For just a moment, Brian sees a flash of insecurity behind his smug confidence.

Oh, yeah. Let's do this.


End file.
